His Everything
by Ruby Casablanca
Summary: Irene Elisabeth Adler was his everything, and now he had nothing.


**A/N: It was called to my attention that one of my details was a tad bit off. I have corrected it and thank you to the person who brought it up. I wouldn't have noticed otherwise. Please, enjoy and thanks for reading :)**

His Everything

He held the piece of soft linen up to his cheek, gently rubbing it as if to permanently ingrain the texture into his skin. It still smelled of her, the alluring scent of jasmine mixed with wet ash, probably from the alleyways he had been following her down earlier. He noted the difference between the delicate material and the raised stitching, pink, based on the dye's density, and memorized the shape of the three cursive-styled letters that they formed.

IEA.

Irene Elisabeth Adler.

The foreign splotch of shaded in a hideous red marred the upper left fold of the kerchief, staining the pure white color it once proudly held. It was crumpled, both from the use of the owner and from being so forcibly shoved into the side pocket of his bag just a few hours prior. Now, as it was so rudely liberated by the unknowing doctor's hands, it was subjected to the harsh salty sea winds, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes had to quickly snatch it away before it was damaged any further.

Gently holding the fabric between his thumbs, he looked out into the great English Channel, completely lost in thought. He didn't mind that Watson was staring at him from behind or that the lovely couple to his left was only mocking his fresh pain. Sherlock only cared about one thing, and that was the last reminder he had of his lost love.

Irene Elisabeth Adler.

He didn't pay much mind to her absence at dinner. He just shirked it off, assuming that she was only playing another game, and he was interested at what the next chase would hold. She was probably doing some business for this so called 'benefactor' or hers, and he guessed he would see her in a few days time, walking down the street with a letter meant for some poor bloke who had no idea what he was getting himself into. Shrugging it off as such, he ate his meal alone, completely innocent of what had happened only a few moments prior without his knowing.

He didn't get suspicious after a day of her absence either; his web of shadows, as he had come to call it, was growing bigger and bigger by the day and he was far too wrapped up in cracking the so called 'mystery of the century'. He had spent all his hours awake smoking God knows what and analyzing every aspect, every facet of this web and found that it all came down to one man, Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty if you wanted to get technical. He knew the exceedingly intelligent professor was known for leaving no loose ends, but Irene didn't even cross his mind at all. He had completely forgotten that she was his right-hand woman, and that was his first mistake.

Still oblivious, and after attending a wedding that drove him to drink, he accepted an invitation for an audience with the good professor. He formally met his match in a college lecture hall where he was terribly out of place. Sherlock was trying so badly to show off that he barely had time to recognize the story Moriarty was spinning and the piece of silk linen being tossed his way. Only after he saw the initials and the foreboding red spot did the pieces snap into play, but his mind couldn't accept what it was processing.

Irene was murdered, force-fed a rare strand of Consumption that killed her within moments apparently, and Moriarty was confessing it to his face. He knew the sadistic man only wanted to get a rise out of him, but Sherlock refused to give him that satisfaction even though he was dying inside. The only good that he could possibly think of was that at least her death wasn't painful; it was quick and then she had peace. But there was no good in that situation.

Irene Elisabeth Adler, the only woman he ever loved, was dead, and he did nothing to stop it.

Sherlock waited until he was far away from Moriarty before he began to break down. He didn't necessarily sob as much as he went mentally insane. He steered himself right to the edge of the Thames River and stood on the edge, patiently waiting for someone to take notice to him. He didn't really want to die, the irrational motives that caused him to act without thinking alarming him greatly, but he felt in that moment that jumping was the only way to make the pain go away. He could wash away his fears in the ice cold water of the Thames and all his pain could float away with the rapids.

He stood for a good fifteen minutes just staring at the rushing water below him before he left, moving without thinking, until he found himself at the lowest, grimiest tavern he could possibly go to. He drank until he was broke and then drank some more, the scorching taste of whiskey searing into his throat. It was something that was at least close to the pain he held inside his soul. He wasn't used to being so irrational, so emotional, so _human. _The fact that he was actually succumbing to his heart instead of his mind disgusted him, yet all he wanted to do was sink farther. He tried his best to get drunk, but the pain kept coming back up, like a gag reflex. Every time he suppressed the feeling, it came back up in a greater force.

_Irene was like that,_ he thought. _Every time you pushed her away, she only came back stronger than before…_

He felt something hot and wet fall down his cheek, and as it fell, another took its place, running the same track. It was an old sensation, one he was not accustomed to nor did he think he was ever capable of; he was far too sophisticated for such petty emotions. Carefully, he caught some of the liquid, the clear, salt-smelling stuff amazing him. He hadn't cried since he was a child, and he never thought he would cry have to cry since then. Apparently he was wrong.

Irene Elisabeth Adler was worth shedding tears over.

But it was more than that. He wasn't just shedding tears, he was shedding his soul. Irene, though he would've never admitted it to her face and would've rather shot his own foot than do so, was the only one he ever truly loved. She was the love of his life; that thieving, clever, independent, beautiful young woman was the only one who was ever able to capture his attention and later, his heart. Watson always teased him about it, but he had always had an attraction to the only woman who could outsmart him, even when he was hunting her down to get back whatever she had stolen that day. She always kept him on the move. She was exciting, and that was kept him coming back each time.

She had bewitched him from the very moment they met on that railcar so many years ago. She was a novice, working for some powerful, now deceased, Hungarian anarchist at the time. She had just stolen the Empire Diamond form the Czarina of Russia and was on her way to drop it off, the rendezvous somewhere trivial and lost in translation. All he remembered were two very beautiful, very cunning brown eyes and a swift blow to the head. It was a cheap shot, definitely not her best, but it was effective. She got away, the diamond lost with her, but he admired her ability to catch him off guard.

The next time they met, she was older and much more experienced. He was prepared for her beauty this go round, but not for her intelligence which had grown substantially in the year that had passed between them. She outwitted him, luring him into the perfect storm cage trap, and sauntered off with her loot, the smirk never leaving her rouged lips. He was supposed to be the cleverest man in the world, so why the hell was she always beating him?

They met many more times over the years, their relationship growing and fading as time passed, and the score eventually evened itself out. One would win once only to have the tables turned on them the next time. He loved the sporadic-ness of their escapades and always looked forward to when he'd see her next, but now there were no next times. Their last adventure was cut short and filled with the empty promise of a dinner date. He thought nothing of it when she didn't come, but now he knew the dark truth behind it.

Their last kiss haunted him as well; the playful, mocking thing still lingered on his lips, the faintest color of rouge still visible but only to the most trained eye. It wasn't even a real kiss, not nearly as meaningful as ones they'd had in the past. No, it was more of a tease, a little peck goodbye, an 'I'll see you later' sort of deal. If he had known what was going to happen, he would've made it a real kiss, one that was sure to be remembered and worth the prestige of 'last kiss'. It wouldn't be the weak one he'd remember as their last for all eternity. No, that kiss was a joke; it was another thing that he'd never get back, he'd never get to save.

But wait; if he had just gotten his head out from under his ass earlier, then maybe he would've noticed the connections earlier. If he had only opened his eyes and seen Irene standing as plain as day in front of him, he could've prevented catastrophe! He could've saved Irene from a terrible death, but no. He had guessed wrong. She wasn't where he though she was and that was the worst guess in the world, one worthy of stripping him of his so called 'detective' title. Even the imbeciles at Scotland Yard could've pieced together what he didn't see, and that was what's insulting.

Thoroughly depressed, he called a cab and made his way back to Baker's Street where a very worried Mrs. Hudson waited for him at the door. He was bombarded with a million questions that his poor, drunken mind couldn't handle so he shoved past her and stumbled up the stairs, locking himself in his room. Something about that room just made him twitch, the sickening web he'd created screaming at him, mocking him, amplifying his incompetence.

In a rage, he destroyed it, destroyed it all. He tore down the web, the papers shedding and flying everywhere. He tore at the board they were pinned on until it came off the wall, and he threw it across into the wooded, jungle area he had created. He shattered the embalming fluid bottles and broke the precious glass globe Watson had given to him as a birthday gift a few years prior. Everything in his study was being thrown everywhere, and he could only imagine what Mrs. Hudson was thinking. She probably thought he was up to one of his experiments, but she couldn't have been any wronger. Sherlock Holmes was dying inside, anger and rage and pain consuming him, and he felt as if it all was his fault.

Irene Elisabeth Adler was slowly killing Sherlock Holmes.

When he had finally settled down, forcing himself to gather his wits, he collected his things and left for the train station, remembering something else, something more pressing than his emotions that Moriarty had told him. The good professor's so called 'congratulations' were probably not very pleasant and he sensed that the newlywed couple would need his help. After all, he needed a getaway, an excuse to do something. Anything was better than brooding in a broken room over Irene.

So, there they were, Watson and Holmes, on a boat in the Channel. It was a pleasant day; all was going well until the naïve doctor pulled out the only thing that could've ruined his day. That kerchief brought back the flood of emotions he had been trying so hard to master, breaking his calm façade. Snatching it up, Sherlock now stood over the rail and let his mind wander, his thoughts taking him around in a complete circle. Now there was only one thing left.

Irene Elisabeth Adler had to be let go.

Sherlock unwillingly pulled the swatch away from his face, inhaling that sweet scent he had loved so much one last time before he let go. He let his fingers take their time, loosening the grip he held on the fabric ever so slowly, one finger going after the other until it fell from his reach, floating away and into the wind. The soft breeze carried the fabric as far as it could before it couldn't bear the weight any longer, gently depositing it into the roaring blue depths below. He watched it sink, the edges the last to go under, and let one last tear escape. He wiped it away swiftly before anyone could see, swearing it to be his last.

Turning, he smiled through his teeth, keeping them clenched so he didn't break down right then and there. Watson stared at him intently, but he kept his composure and was terribly relieved when he didn't ask any questions. He preferred it that way, and he knew Watson knew that as well.

The truth was, that hurt worse than the initial news of her death. Then, her death was only mental, the proof intangible but known to be real, so the mind only had to make up its own proof, an image of a broken woman, and it mourned that. Now, the proof was physical, and to have that part of her, a part that smelled and felt like her, so forcibly ripped away, was the worst backlash he could've possibly received. He knew in his heart he could never stop loving her, but he also knew that in order to let himself heal, he had to let her go. Things always had to get worse before they got better, or at least that's what he had been told all his life. Now it was time to test the theory. He had nothing else to lose.

Irene Elisabeth Adler was his everything, and now he was nothing.


End file.
